An-Apologies to everyone who clicked on this this morning. ff and I were having a fight I didn't know about. Thanks again to the reader who pmd me to let me know.

So this is a shameless self-indulgent fic that I will work on when I have time, no promises on ever finishing. It's Tim centric, rated mostly for swearing and bit for dealing with depression. I hope you enjoy the ride

Chapter 1

Tim's fingers stuttered across the keyboard, the only betrayal of his surprise. It was a small sign, though Tim had no doubt that it had been caught it and Tim was being evaluated based on it, based on everything could be seen in here, and Tim would yet again be found wanting.

The safe house was lacking and in poor taste. An abandoned restaurant from when Falcone had been top dog, there was a basement that didn't exist on any blueprint filled with concrete rooms that had drains in the floor and eye screws in the ceiling. Tim had claimed the one furthest from the trapdoor that lead up into the restaurant as his own by virtue of it having an old power generator inside, moving in just the very basics: a mattress, a mini-fridge, a computer and a workbench. It wasn't comfortable like a hotel would be, but Tim had craved the security more than comfort and with only one entrance it theoretically should have been possible for Tim to set up a kickass warning system so he could secure the room before anyone even found the basement.

Given that Batman had found his way in, that theory was rapidly falling apart.

Tim bit back a sigh. He'd planned on getting a few hours of sleep after he'd finished responding to Lucius's emails, proving to the man that despite his days of silence Tim was indeed alive. It looked like instead he'd be either upgrading his security or moving his things to a new temporary safe house. If Batman could get in, Damian or Jason could get in and that would lead to Tim waking up dead.

"Are you hurt?" Batman asked, concern painting his tone.

Tim's hands froze. He couldn't remember the last time Batman had asked him that. Before Bruce had fallen through time. Probably before Damian had appeared. And even then the question had always been loaded, more about Batman cataloguing Tim's failures than inquiring about his health.

Batman didn't bother to record Tim's failures anymore. Him almost killing Captain Boomerang had cemented Tim as the black sheep of the family. Not that Tim had ever been family. Whatever. The point was that now Batman only watched Tim to see if he left behind a trail of corpses, which, considering Jason and Damian, was actually kind of hilarious in the most fucked up sense. If Kon and Bart had survived, it was something they would have laughed over together.

Tim pushed the dead aside and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Why was Batman here? The three most likely options were that: Batman was legitimately worried about Tim, Batman wanted to reprimand Red Robin, or Tim was hallucinating because even he could only go without sleep for so long. The first was a manifestation of Tim's fantasies, not a reflection of any possible reality. He judged himself for even bringing it up as an option. The third would explain both the concerned tone and the lack of alarms, but until the second theory was dismissed Tim would assume it to be true. Better to be cautious with hallucination Batman than overshare with the real thing.

"I'm fine."

"The Riddler held you for days." The amount of concern once again hinted at hallucination. Unless the concern was that Tim was off his game. Maybe he was about to be benched?

Caffeine. Whatever "this" was, it called for caffeine. Tim kicked back from the table where he'd set up the computer, his chair rolling to the mini fridge. He pulled out a canned coffee, his last canned coffee, with a frown. He was sure that he was supposed to have more left than that. He added grabbing more to the list.

He cracked the can open and the sound echoed in the concrete room. He could feel Batman's judgement as he downed the can. It seemed to intensify as he tossed the can into the makeshift recycling he'd set up.

"I'm fine." It had been three days in a cage with no food, no sleep, and a guard with a juiced-up stock prod for company. Tim was just supposed to be the climax in the Riddler's latest brain measuring contest against Batman. It had been an annoying experience, and a bit embarrassing, but Tim still had all his organs, he'd escaped on his own and he'd dropped the Riddler off with Gordon a few hours ago, so it counted as a win.

"Catwoman said you were bleeding."

Fuck Selina and whatever the fuck her relationship with Bruce was. She wasn't Robin's mom and, even if she was by some fucked up logic, Tim was no longer Robin. They'd merely passed each other as Tim made his way back to his safe house. She hadn't even spoken to him, just done the patented vigilante nod of acknowledgement before swinging their separate ways into the night. Apparently her way was of to find Bruce so they could gossip about Tim's latest fuck up.

"I'm fine."

Tim could feel the Batman's eyes trying to stare through his armor. Tim strategically drummed his hand on his thigh, effecting annoyance while hiding a fresh stab wound he'd hastily glued shut instead of stitching. "You're too-"

"Too what? Reckless?" Tim's smile was all teeth, daring Batman to have that conversation with the Robin who only signed up to prevent Batman from beating people to death.

"Thin."

Tim blinked. Then blinked again. "Oh. Damn." He rubbed his eyes, regretting the coffee.

"Oh?" Batman asked cautiously.

Tim waved a hand dismissively. "You just confirmed that you are a sleep deprivation hallucination."

"Oh?" And this time there was an edge, like hallucination Batman was pissed. This hallucination was far more emotive than real Batman.

"You are inquiring about my health and only my health." Tim scrubbed a hand through his hair, thinking. "Why am I subconsciously concerned about my health?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Four days ago." Before the whole Riddler thing. "I had a sandwich." Which wasn't a lot but the human body could go a month without food before dying. "I'll need to grab something tomorrow on the way to the office."

"You're planning on going to work tomorrow?" Hallucination Batman crossed his arms in disapproval.

Tim pointed at himself. "CEO of Wayne Enterprises." He hummed. "If I'm hallucinating this vividly I'll need to limit it to a half day and get some sleep. The board wouldn't be pleased to see me talking to thin air."

"You could go to the Manor. Alfred would feed you."

"He would," Tim sighed wistfully. "But everyone has made it pretty clear that I'm not welcome back." He ran a hand through his hair again. "I've fulfilled my role as replacement Robin, now that Bruce's real son has taken up the mantle. Dick discarded me, Damian is still trying to kill me, and after I nearly killed Captain Boomerang I'm pretty sure that Bruce has me on a Justice League watch list of potential supervillains. He's going to distance himself so when I do go bad he can," Tim held up finger quotes as he dropped his voice into an imitation of Batman's, ""do what needs to be done."" He snorted derisively. "Maybe I should just throw myself off of Gotham Arms. At the very least I'd never have to listen to Ra's talk about having my babies again."

Hallucination Batman had gone very still and very stiff. "Ra's Al Ghul wants to have your children."

"Yes."

"And you are living outside the Manor."

"Yes."

"And Batman has disowned you for attempting to kill the man who murdered your father."

"None of this is repressed information."

"And you are having suicidal thoughts."

Tim chewed his lips. Was he really? He'd just joked about jumping off of the tallest building in Gotham, but did he have the urge to actually do it? He spun on the chair as he gave it some thought. His friends were either dead or resented his presence in their lives. Ditto with his family. He still had his villain hit list that he needed to finish up, but when that was done…. then what? A flash of him holding his dad's gun flickered through his brain.

"Okay," he said to hallucination Batman. "That's a revelation, but I don't think it is urgent. I've got a few months to work through the list so until then I can hold steady."

"Hold steady." The man's tone was flat and unimpressed.

"If it gets worse I'll follow up," he promised his subconscious. "And since I think that was the revelation my brain needed to have, I'm going to finish my emails to Lucius and get some sleep." He kicked off of the mini fridge and rolled back to the desk, sliding back to the computer in one smooth motion. He read over what he'd already typed, trying to reclaim the thought process before his brain had rudely interrupted.

It was the needle sliding into his neck that made him realize that he had horribly miscalculated.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Before Tim was fully was aware that he was awake, he knew he was in safe the Manor. He was tucked in a blanket that was so smooth it made his skin sing, buried under the soft smell of fresh laundry. Alfred had a particular detergent that Tim had never been able to find the name of and, while the Bats smelled of kevlar and blood, the Waynes, when not in Armani, smelled of this gentle sweetness.

It would have been the perfect way to start the morning, if it wasn't for the insistent whisper of his brain on how this is wrong wrong wrong, but Tim was too groggy to figure it out. He was injured, but not seriously so. He was hungry- wow, he was really hungry- but even that didn't account for the feeling in his bones of danger and fear. There was someone in the room with him, but the way they breathed was familiar and his brain slotted him in as just Bruce.

Then his brain reminded him that Bruce disdained Tim, throwing the switch that reminded him of the needle in his neck, and Tim rolled out of bed and into a defensive crouch.

Or tried to, anyway.

What actually happened was that Tim rolled, tangling himself deeper into the blanket, and hit the floor in an ungraceful pile that made every injury he'd incurred over the past few days vibrate with pain. He frantically kicked himself out of the blanket, and then scrambled into a defensive crouch to meet the gaze of one Bruce Wayne.

Except that he wasn't. Not really. For starters, the man wasn't sneering at Tim's clumsy maneuver. There were no terse words about form, no harsh barks about failure. He was also younger. Not in a less troubled by the world way for he still smacked of Bruce's usual intensity, but in a definitely born a few years after Tim's Bruce. Which also meant that he wasn't Thomas Elliot.

Fake Bruce was also still sitting in a plush armchair, holding his hands out by his sides, palms spread wide in the universal gesture of peace, instead of establishing himself as the alpha of alphas by looming.

Worse, Tim was in a painfully familiar room. The walls were a soft lavender and the decor was accented to match. A vase on the end table. Paintings of hazy flowers. A mahogany dresser against the far wall. Like all the guest rooms in the Manor it was a little too plush to be inviting, which was why Tim had felt no guilt when he'd utterly destroyed this room in his grief of being fired from Robin. He'd reduced that dresser to kindling and ground the vase into dust. The chair Fake Bruce was in had shattered against the largest painting, leaving a hole in the drywall and glass shards in the carpet. No one, not even Alfred, had ever mentioned it to his face. He'd just come back from the Middle East to find that the room had been converted into an art studio for Damian. Like everything in the Manor, redone to suit Damian's tastes.

It was unnerving. Tim was unnerved.

But he was also well trained. "Bruce?" He dropped out of the defensive crouch, wrapping an arm around his torso in a show of vulnerability as he widened his eyes, wearing innocence like a costume. "What's going on?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Fake Bruce asked firmly, the way he did when he was questioning a witness liable to spook. The man's impression was impressive.

"I-I," Tim affected a stutter as he scrunched his face. How many hours did people lose after being drugged? "I had fought the Riddler? And had left him with Gordon. I know I planned on heading to my safe house but I don't-" He cut himself off to stare at his toes. He could lie to Batman, a man who'd known him for years, who'd trained him to conceal the truth. This man would be a piece of cake.

Fake Bruce patted the bed. "Take a seat. What I'm about to tell you might be… difficult to accept."

Though he was loathed to give up the maneuverability, Tim did as he was told and perched himself on the very edge of the bed, careful to make sure his feet wouldn't tangle in the blanket if he needed to move suddenly. He moved gingerly, buying more time as his mind raced through which lies he was likely to be told and calculated the best responses. Isolation was the most likely goal, so there was a high chance he'd be informed that someone was dead. Or taken, if whoever had Tim needed him to unwittingly take down an enemy. There was also the possibility of a fake reconciliation, playing on Tim's role as the family outlier in order to foster some affection towards his captor, and wasn't it just embarrassing on how easily he'd given them that ammunition.

"Tim." His name fell heavily from Fake Bruce's lips. "I'm not your Bruce Wayne."

"What?" What. This was not on the list.

"I'm not your Bruce Wayne." Fake Bruce repeated. "I'm from an alternate universe and though my intent was not to interfere with your world, when I became aware of your situation I grew concerned." Tim's situation? What did that even mean? "I kidnapped you, and brought you to my universe."

That explained the room, and made more sense than someone trying to recreate this specific room from Tim's memory. It also explained Bruce shedding a few years. Multiverse theory stated that it was possible that there were infinite universes with infinite permutations of the people who occupied them, so it was definitely a plausible scenario. One that would be difficult to correct. Tim did not have the scientific background that would be needed for him to find a way back to his universe. And seriously, what the hell did he mean by 'situation'? Was it that he thought Tim was unfit to be Red Robin? Or unfit to be the CEO of Wayne Enterprise?

"What are you planning on doing to me?" Tim asked, hoping that keeping his voice small would help hide any annoyance that bled into it.

Other Bruce shuffled forward into the chair and leaned in. His shoulder twitched, a telltale sign of an aborted movement. "I'm going to help you heal, and then I am going to return you home."

What. The. Hell.

Tim didn't have to pretend to be bewildered. "The burns will be healed in a few days, and the cut didn't even need stitches." Tim was barely injured. Definitely not enough to warrant an inter-universal intervention. Was this Bruce Wayne unhinged? Driven by loss? Maybe his Tim had died and he was trying to live out a fantasy where that was avoided.

"You're depressed."

"I'm fine." Of all the hairbrained ideas. Tim wasn't moping in bed feeling sad all the time. He was productive! Wayne Enterprise had grown by ten percent last quarter and he was making his way through his list in good speed. Depressed. Ridiculous.

Other Bruce frowned, and Tim could see Batman looking through. "You don't eat unless someone hands you food." His place didn't have a kitchen or even a microwave. "You only sleep when you physically cannot stay awake any longer." Um hello. Tim was a vigilante. That was par for the course. "You don't socialize." All Tim's friends were dead. "You have a substance abuse problem."

"I do not," Tim protested, scandalized. Tim would never! He'd seen what did had done to Roy. It was not an experience Tim wanted to emulate.

Other Bruce raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Your caffeine habit."

Okay. If this Bruce thought caffeine was a 'substance' then he was definitely off his rocker. Tim would need to be careful on how he played this.

"How 'healed'," and wasn't Tim proud that he didn't actually do the finger quote gesture, "do I have to be before I can go home?"

"You need to hit and maintain a minimum weight and be able to demonstrate regular sleep habits," Other Bruce listed. " I also want you actively socializing. I'll arrange for someone for you to speak to, someone in the League so you can confide what you feel you need to. I understand, given your affiliations, that you prefer to avoid antidepressants unless absolutely necessary?"

Tim nodded. This was weird, but doable. He could play along with that until the doppelganger returned him home or revealed his true motives.

"And no more caffeine."

The man was a menace and a sadist if he thought he could come between Tim and coffee. Stealth would be required, but Tim was very sneaky. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. "How does my counterpart feel about you bringing home someone with his face?" Tim would have felt weird about it. Other Tim probably felt weird. Unless he was dead. He was probably dead. Tim himself should probably be dead several times over.

Bruce leaned back, a subtle sign of discomfort. "This universe is an alternate to yours. While there are many points of commonality, there are just as many differences. For example: the times of our world's align. The year, day, and hour are the same. However, in this universe Dick is only nineteen."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Tim closed his eyes. "Jason."

"It's been nine months." There was an undercurrent of pain that Tim had never heard in his Bruce's voice. "I intend to investigate whether or not this is a point of commonality. And Damian. If they… I'm going to bring them home, if I can."

"As for Tim, Janet Benoit and Jack Drake never married in this universe," Bruce bruskly changed topics, the emotions of moments before tucked away. "There is a high possibility that they never met. Janet married Daphne Dean several years ago and they are currently living in Metropolis."

"Daphne Dean the actress?" Tim's mom had been bi?

"Indeed," Bruce smiled, radiating approval. "Janet was her publicist before they transitioned into a romantic relationship. It caused quite the scandal."

The smile melted away. "Jack Drake married his addictions counselor, a woman named Dana Winters." Bruce shuffled on his chair, putting himself close enough to Tim that he could place a warm hand on Tim's shoulder. "They were murdered on their honeymoon by Obeah Man. I'm sorry." He gave a light squeeze before pulling away, leaving a cold patch in its absence.

"Um, thank you? But it's not like I knew them?" What was the emotional protocol for discovering you had a dead not-parents in an alternate universe? Was there a protocol? Tim could feel something unpleasant curling in his gut, but he was hardly in a position to examine it. "I'm going to need access to the internet, if things are that different here." Also, if Tim was going to become an expert on multiverse travel so he could send himself home. He also needed to figure out if this Bruce was secretly evil.

"You'll be provided a laptop and a phone. You will not," Bruce's voice was razor sharp, "be allowed in the Cave or off of the Manor grounds. Dick has not yet been informed of your presence, as his current mission requires him on base. I'm sure he will have no objection to your presence here," Bruce attempted to assure Tim.

Tim hummed noncommittally. Okay. So there seemed to be no immediate danger. He could handle this. It would all be fine.